


Control is an Illusion

by Zoejoy24



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bladder Control, Desperation, Humiliation, Loss of Control, M/M, Malcolm Bright Whump, Omorashi, Squirmy Malcolm, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, incest but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23287270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoejoy24/pseuds/Zoejoy24
Summary: Malcolm's never been good at taking care of himself.  The case has always come before his own comfort or well-being.  He should have known that this was something that Martin would be all too eager to take advantage of.When he visits his father for the first time in weeks he isn't surprised to find that he's a little upset about being ignored for so long.  What he doesn't expect is that his father has a punishment in mind.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 13
Kudos: 37
Collections: Prodigal Son Trash Swap Spring 2020!





	Control is an Illusion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SomeRainMustFall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeRainMustFall/gifts).



> Well this was a first for me. I've never written omorashi before so I felt like I was floundering the whole time but I have it on good authority that this turned out alright so hopefully it hits all the right buttons! 
> 
> Quick note on the tags... there's no intercourse, and while one character does get aroused it isn't really... sexual. So I didn't use the actual tag for incest because of those reasons. However if anyone feels that I should then let me know and I totally will.

Malcolm is  _ not happy. _ It's been weeks since he’s had to see his father. None of their recent cases had required his  _ expertise _ and Malcolm was more than happy to stay away from Claremont Psychiatric. 

But just two days ago they’d gotten a case that stumped even him. With the looming threat of another person falling victim to their killer he’d been working on his profile nearly non-stop only to continue to hit a wall every step of the way.

He hasn’t slept, has barely eaten anything since the case started, subsisting, as his mother says, on licorice and sparkling water. He’s been forced to acknowledge the fact that Martin may be their only chance at getting any sort of lead on their suspect, so he calls a cab and sits in pensive silence the whole ride over.

He’s nervous, for some reason, jittery. He takes several deep, calming breaths as he walks down the hall towards his father’s cell, forcing a mask of indifference onto his face as he steals himself for the encounter. His legs starts jiggling like it has a mind of its own and he grimaces, can’t help it because the  _ urge _ that’s been niggling at the back of his mind--easy to ignore when there’s other things going on--is suddenly forcing its way into the forefront of his mind and he doesn’t have time for that right now. He has a job to do.

Martin stands waiting, as he always does, a wide grin on his face.

“Malcolm, my boy. Long time no see,” Martin greets him as soon as he walks in the door. “Let me guess, you have a case to solve and only I can give you the information you need to do it.”

There’s an edge to his voice that’s hard to miss. Malcolm expected his father to be… upset… by his long absence and is prepared to deal with him accordingly.

“Hello, Dr. Whitly. I’m afraid I’ve been rather busy lately, but you’re right. I do need your help, and I’m in a bit of a rush today.”

Martin gives him an appraising look, no doubt trying to judge just how much he’ll be able to get from Malcolm in return for his assistance.

“Well, I have to say I’m starting to feel a little used, son. It hurts a father’s heart when his children only come to him when they need something.

Malcolm sighs, clenching his teeth tightly together to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret. He just… really needs to get this over with. 

“That’s…  _ fair _ ,” he grits out. “But you’ll have to forgive me if visiting my psychopathic serial killer father isn’t high on my priority list.”

Martin tilts his head and tuts. “Still, you could at least try. Or call! You know I have phone time everyday.”

“You’re right. And, if you help me,  _ when this case is over, _ I promise I will try harder,” Malcolm concedes. He only hopes Martin doesn’t ask for something specific.

He can’t afford to isolate Martin completely, as much as he would like to cut him out of his life. He’s proven to be far too valuable, his input having helped Malcolm solve cases faster, and save lives. 

“I suppose that’s all I can ask for. So, what’s the case this time?” Martin asks, wiggling his eyebrows in excitement.

Malcolm lays out the details, explains the murders and their difficulties in nailing down a suspect. He catches himself rocking in place and clenches his jaw, clamping down.  _ Just stand still, just get what you need and go _ , he tells himself.  _ Don’t give Martin anything he can use against you. _

His father asks questions, prods at his theories, brainstorming about possible new angles from which to view the case.

They talk longer than Malcolm had anticipated and he soon finds himself full of anxious energy once more, barely able to stand still. He realizes with a sinking sensation that he really needs to fucking  _ piss _ , but he can’t afford to leave, not quite yet. They’re making progress and he doesn’t want to leave without something concrete to work with.

He sinks into the folding chair in the corner, crosses his legs and tries to make it look nonchalant, hopes that Martin is so caught up in the case that he doesn’t notice the way Malcolm is struggling to sit still, the way he’s constantly adjusting, trying to relief the pressure, to ignore the discomfort he’s feeling with each passing moment. 

He uncrosses his legs, leans over to rest his elbows on his knees, but his right leg is jiggling and there’s no way he can hide it anymore. He forces himself to stand and starts to pace, back and forth on his side of the red line, sharing his thoughts on the case out loud to distract himself and Martin from his  _ problem _ .

Martin’s watching him intently, but he doesn’t notice, not really. Doesn’t see the knowing gleam in his father’s eye.

Martin goes to his bookcase, the one he can reach when tethered, and pulls a book from his shelf, bringing it to his desk and flipping through the pages.

“Here, my boy. What about this?” Martin asks, holding the book open and pointing to a spot halfway down the page. 

Malcolm huffs in annoyance as he makes his way over to the desk, forced to pause in his pacing, trying to stand still and keep himself from bouncing on his toes or shifting his weight.

He’s distracted--by the case, by his  _ situation _ \--and impatient. He doesn’t pay attention to where he’s standing, comes a little too close to the desk, leaning over to look at the section his father had been pointing to.

“What does this have to do with the case?” Malcolm demands, turning to face his father.

Suddenly Martin is there, crowding against him, blocking him in with his arms and forcing him up against his desk.

“What, what are you  _ doing _ ?” Malcolm gasps out in surprise, a primal surge of fear shooting through him as his father pins him against the desk.

“I just want to talk, my boy. And your pacing is  _ very _ distracting. Now, why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?” Martin suggests, voice low and close.

“You’re-”

“Crazy? Yes, that’s been well established,” Martin says with a smile, pressing into Malcolm, forcing him forward so the edge of the desk is digging into his lower belly.

Malcolm groans at the increased pressure on his bladder, leaning forward onto one elbow in an attempt to lessen the strain.

“Dr. Whitly, let me go,” he grits out. 

He glances towards the hallway where Mr. David sits--usually sits--but finds it empty and he groans in frustration. 

“How…?” he mutters. “Were you planning this?”

Martin shifts against him, placing his feet on either side of Malcolm’s, leaving him with nowhere to go and with barely any space between their bodies.

“Malcolm, really. How could I plan  _ this _ ? I’m merely taking advantage of a situation that you created.”

“Liar. Where is the guard?” Malcolm grits out.

“Oh, that? Well I will admit I may have been hoping to do a little more bonding than usual. I never imagined you’d make it so easy.”

Malcolm groans as a full-bodied shiver wracks his body.

“ _ Martin _ , you need to let me go. This isn’t going to get you what you want,” Malcolm says, voice laced with a quiet desperation he can’t quite hide.

Martin hums, deep in his chest, pressing in even closer, leaning down over Malcolm so he can whisper into his ear.

“I don’t think so, Malcolm. I think I’m getting exactly what I want right now in fact.”

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?” Malcolm hisses out.

“You, under my control,” Martin answers.

Malcolm lets out a quiet little sob at that. He knows exactly what his father is capable of, knows that he’s not happy with the way that Malcolm has been avoiding him. The man craves power and control, and up till now Malcolm has held all of the power in their relationship.

He shifts, the movement an unconscious one, pressing his legs closer together to counter the pressure building there, clenching his fists tightly together. The ache is becoming nearly unbearable and he can feel a flush creeping its way up his chest to his face.

“What do you want from me?” Malcolm whines, desperate to get away from his father, from this cell.

“My boy, I just want to talk, spend time with you, like we used to. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Malcolm collapses down onto both elbows, head hanging between his arms as he sucks in a breath, another shiver running through his body and there’s no way his father missed it this time. He tries to push back against Martin, to gain a little space and relieve from the pressure against his belly, but Martin doesn’t budge. 

The action reveals something else to Malcolm, and his head shoots up in surprise and disgust.

“Are you… fuck. Are you  _ hard _ ? Are you getting off on this?” he demands.

Martin chuckles, groaning quietly before answering.

“Don’t take it personally, Malcolm. It’s not you, it’s me. I ‘get off’ on the power. You should know that. And right now, having you here, like this, squirming and frantic and at my mercy? Well, it’s quite the rush.”

Malcolm’s lips twist into a snarl. “You’re disgusting.”

“That may be, but I’m not the one who’s about to make a mess in my pants,” Martin replies glibly.

Malcolm starts to reply but all that comes out is a whimper as Martin moves his hand to press directly against Malcolm’s bladder. He nearly loses it then and there, just barely managing to maintain control, to fight back against his father’s insistent touch.

“What do you want?” Malcolm repeats, seething and a little afraid. 

He can’t,  _ can’t _ , give into his father. He has to be in control of their relationship now or… he doesn’t know what. Or his father will have won, somehow. Will have managed to just turn him into another victim,  _ again _ , and he refuses to let that happen.

“I think you know, Malcolm. I want you to let go, for me.” He presses down again and Malcolm cries out at the pain.”

“Fuck,  _ fuck _ you,” Malcolm gasps out, tears starting to roll down his cheeks.

“Oh, Malcolm. I didn’t think you’d be interested in  _ that _ . But I suppose if you’d prefer we could take things in that direction. It really doesn’t matter to me how you choose to submit to me. But if you want my help with this case, if you want my help ever again, you will give me this. Think of it as an apology gift, for using me like you have been.”

“Oh god,” Malcolm sobs, squirming as he's trapped between his father’s body behind him and his hand pressing insistently against him. His father can’t really… he wouldn’t do  _ that _ .. Surely.

Almost as if reading his thoughts Martin grinds up against him, pressing his hardness into Malcolm’s ass. He moves his hand from where it’s pressing against Malcolm’s belly to hover over his fly and Malcolm panics, jerking away and pushing back against him frantically but Martin’s too strong.

“Stop, shit, stop. Alright!” he exclaims as Martin starts to work at his button.

Martin moves his hand, but doesn’t step back. He hums happily in Malcolm’s ear, his beard tickling against the sensitive skin there as he leans in close and whispers, “there’s my good boy.” 

“Let me… let me up and I’ll uh. I’ll use your toilet,” Malcolm suggests.

“Oh no, my boy. That’s too easy. That’s still your choice. I told you, I want you to let go for  _ me _ , give yourself over to  _ me _ .”

Malcolm shakes his head. “No, no, no…” he whispers.

It’s not even… it wouldn’t even matter except he has to walk out of here, and everyone will be able to see, they’ll  _ know _ . His face flushes even redder, the skin there feeling like it's on fire and he’s so glad he can hide that from his father, at least.

“Come one, Malcolm. Doesn’t it hurt? Wouldn’t it feel good to just stop fighting? Just let go?” Martin is cooing into his ear as if Malcolm were a child again in need of his father’s comfort.

“I hate you,” Malcolm seethes, tears falling freely onto Marin’s desk.

“Be that as it may, you will give me this, one way or the other.”

Malcolm groans, desperate and furious and defeated. Because he can’t fight it anymore, it hurts too much and his father isn’t going to let up, isn’t going to let Malcolm leave with his dignity intact, that much is clear.

“There it is, come on, boy. Listen to your dad, eh? Let go,” Martin murmurs, pressing his fingers painfully hard into Malcolm’s stomach.

Malcolm let's go with a ragged cry. It’s almost as hard to force his body to relax as it was to keep it in, but with Martin’s hand on him he can’t fight the urge anymore and he feels the piss run down his leg and he shakes in embarrassment and a relief he hates himself for feeling. Martin lets out a groan of appreciation behind him, sliding his hand across Malcolm’s belly to wrap around his hip and pull him back against his body. 

Malcolm drops his head against his forearm where it's resting on the desk and sobs, quietly, shaking beneath his father as he finishes, and Martin starts to coo at him once more, rubs his back soothingly.

“Oh, little Malcolm, sweet boy, you did so good for me. So good.”

Malcolm shudders but he can’t find it in himself to push away from the desk, suddenly  _ so _ tired. Finally he manages to lift his head, turning to look over his shoulder and finally look his father in the face.

“What makes you think I will ever come back here again after this?” Malcolm demands. Because he won’t, he  _ can’t _ . Not now… not now that he has to walk out of Claremont after giving into his father, the evidence there for everyone to see.

Martin wraps an arm around his chest and pulls him backwards. He sinks into his desk chair, pulling Malcolm down with him into his lap, keeping his still hard cock pressed firmly against Malcolm’s ass though he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to do anything about his own  _ problem _ .

Malcolm whimpers and gives a weak attempt at escaping his father’s lap but he feels spent, listless, and Martin easily subdues him, tightens his grip around Malcolm’s waist, grabbing hold of one knee and holds him in place.

“Because you can’t help yourself, my boy. As soon as you need my help you’ll come running back, because you can’t bear the thought of someone else dying because you were too weak to do something about it.”

That gets Malcolm going, the words like a jolt to his broken mind, kicking him into gear once more. He pushes hard against Martin’s chest and kicks out, freeing himself from his father’s grip but throwing himself to the floor in the process. He lands with a grimace but stands quickly, glaring down at his father.

Martin’s sitting contentedly, hands folded in his lap, watching Malcolm with a small smile on his face. His eyes drift lazily down his body, coming to rest on the wet spot over Malcolm’s crotch.

“That’s a good look on you,” he smirks.

Malcolm feels his face flush once more, his previous bravado forgotten in the face of his father’s enjoyment of his condition. 

There’s a noise in the hall and then the door is opening and Mr. David is there, opening the cell door, a worried look on his face. 

“What’s going on here? Where’s Garret?”

Malcolm says nothing, just rushes out as fast as he can.

He can hear his father making whatever excuses he has about the missing guard behind him, but he doesn’t care. He just has to get away. He ducks his head, cheeks burning whenever he passes anyone in the hall.

As he pushes through the main doors he realizes in horror that he has to ride home like this.

He can’t bring himself to call a cab but there’s no way he can take public transportation either.

Before he even has time to question himself he pulls out his phone and dials a familiar number.

“Gil? Hey I… uh. I need a ride. Please.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! If you are enjoying this fic, love Prodigal Son, and are 18+, I'd love for you to come hang out on the brand new [Discord Server](https://discord.gg/6ytNM9jDBf) that SomeRainMustFall and I started! It is open to all ship-positive, kink-positive people who are looking for a space to chat, get to know, and enjoy the show with other fans in a safe and positive environment!
> 
> You can also find me on Tumblr [here](http://prodigal-zoe.tumblr.com). I'm always down to scream about the show and the characters!


End file.
